Blood Gulch Shots
by GreyLiliy
Summary: Red vs Blue One-Shots. Ratings will vary and be labeled as needed for content. Characters Will Vary.
1. The Blue Base Couch - Wash and Doc

Red vs Blue One-Shots shall be found here! So let's get 'um started. :3

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Someone asked nicely for a "Docington" fic on Tumblr on an open post in the tracked tags. And I know the pain of not being able to find anything new for your favorite rare-pair.

**The Blue Base Couch**

_Characters: _Washington & Frank "Doc" DuFresne

_Rating: _G/K+

_Summary: _The Blues have a new couch, which inevitably attracts company.

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Wash sunk into the worn cushion of the couch they'd hijacked from a nearby base. While their little home in Blood Gulch suited most of their needs, supplies weren't unlimited and raids on nearby bases were inevitable. It was stealing, but what was the worse that could happen? What's a count of larceny on top of their other list of charges? This particular run had been food-focused, and they had gathered quite the haul, but then Caboose saw the couch. He loved that couch. He had to have the couch. Wash told the kid offhand that if he wanted it, _he'd _have to carry it.

Wash had forgotten the kid was strong as an ox, and over Caboose's Regulation Blue shoulder it went.

The couch was ugly. The print was a weird red, black, and yellow plaid pattern with white lace along the bottom. It looked like something dragged out his grandmother's apartment. But, it fit all three of them easily with wide square cushions. The seats were comfortable, and it fit in the space between a weapon's rack and their kitchenette neatly. They'd moved the television across from it, against the other wall and it fit in better than Wash would have imagined. Made their base look sort of homey, really.

The end point, Wash thought to himself, was that their home was now plus-one couch. Which led to his current predicament:

"Why are you here again?" Wash asked, tracing the pattern on the couch arm with his index and middle fingers. There was a full cushion seat between him and his latest companion, but Wash still felt tense. "Weren't you and Donut roomies or something in Valhalla?"

"He moved back in with the Reds." Doc answered, twisting his fingers together in his lap. Wash scratched his stomach through his shirt as Doc stopped to adjust his glasses. Both of their armor sets sat in the corner, neatly stacked. "Took me about a week to realize where he went."

"And you came to Blue base, because?" Wash asked, genuinely curious. He and Doc had left on _decent_ terms, that never seemed to mean much with Wash's associates. Wash tapped the couch arm.

Doc had arrived this morning in full armor and a suitcase in his hand. Tucker had told the medic to get lost, but Caboose smacked him hard enough to leave a teal-solider shaped dent in the wall. Wash couldn't place a motive, but Caboose let Doc in all the same. Wash would have questioned it, but he hadn't had his coffee yet and his soap was on. It was when Doc sat next to him on the couch, already changed into his civvies, that Wash started to feel awkward. They really hadn't a chance to talk since they killed the Meta, and it was just—weird.

Wash coughed into his hand, and scratched the back of his cropped hair. " Wouldn't it make more sense to move in with Donut?"

"I did." Doc averted his eyes to the side. He folded his hands in his lap, and sighed. "Or, rather, I tried."

"Oh," Wash said, feeling dumb. If they'd kept him at Red Base he'd be _there._ Wash was really letting his training leave him. Even an ex-Freelancer should be better than that! Wash mumbled, "That idiot Grif, or Sarge kick you out?"

"No," Doc said evenly. His body was very still, and Wash's training did, however, pick up on how tightly controlled his voice was. "Donut."

"Oh," Wash repeated. _Well that's something I'm not touching with a ten foot pole, _he thought to himself.

Doc picked up the remote and changed the channel as the credits started rolling on the television screen. He flipped through the channels until he found an infomercial for scented candles, of all things. The television filled the silence with a perky show host, and Wash rubbed his hands on the top of his thighs wondering where the heck Caboose and Tucker had gone. He couldn't deal with this tension.

Wash blurted, "Guess Blue Base is better than camping out, huh?"

"Yes, caves are okay, but this is better. I spent a quite a few weeks living in one for a while, but a base floor is better. Less water and bats," Doc said absently. As if the words that had come out of his mouth were perfectly normal. Wash stared, while Doc leaned toward the television. "Oh, I wonder if that candle comes in lavender aromatherapy…"

"You used to live in a cave?" Wash asked, face scrunched in confusion.

"Yes. In the old Blood Gulch. I was assigned to Blue Base, but they sent me to Red Base saying I was needed over there more. It was great at first, but I screwed up with Grif, and so they sent me back to Blue Base." Doc leaned over the side of the couch and looked around. He lifted a gun on the shelf with his index finger and thumb and looked under it. Wash almost rolled his eyes, and reached over to the kitchenette counter. He picked up the stick-it note pad and a pencil before tossing it at Doc. He said his thanks, and immediately began to copy down down order numbers—not that they'd deliver. Doc continued, "Or tried. Blue Base wouldn't take me back, and there was no pick-up team, so I got stuck living in a cave."

Wash didn't have a response to that.

"It wasn't so bad. Just after I settled in, I met O'Malley, so it's not like I was alone. He was angry a lot, but he was okay after you got used to him." Doc smiled. "And then Lopez and that Bomb Andy were around, and they were pretty mean, but I think they meant well? I'm not sure sometimes. But they had their pleasant moments, too."

"I see," Wash said. "So what happened to them?"

"I'm pretty sure they're all dead," Doc said, writing down a second number. "They all left me, either way, and then I spent a lot of time at Blue Base babysitting Tucker's kid."

"Junior, right." Wash nodded to himself, still slightly unnerved by Tucker's alien baby. The kid was in his own corner of the base, but still. Tucker a dad? No way. "Bet he was a handful."

"No, no he was fine." Doc looked up. "After that we all split up, and well, I guess I met you."

Wash snorted to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. "Met. Yeah, that's one way to put it."

Doc's hand stopped on the pad mid sentence, and he looked contemplative. Wash bit his lip, wondering if this is went all that pent-up anger from kidnapping Doc, and all that hell he put him through with the Meta would come out and the guilt. Wash braced and—

The medic started laughing.

Wash scooted up in his seat, the plaid fabric stretching. "What? What's funny now?"

"Your face. You look like I'm going to attack you or something." Doc looked over, and grinned. "Don't you remember I'm a pacifist?"

"Yeah, but even pacifists get mad when you kidnap people and have a scary Meta drag them around a desert embedded in a wall."

"And yet you were still far better company than O'Malley ever was," Doc said, his voice tight. "He was really evil. Always wanting to hurt people, and—I shouldn't talk that way. I'm sorry."

"Nah, it's okay." Wash settled back into his seat. The infomercial droned on as each candle was showed off with a list of 'calming ingredients.' "O'Malley was worse than I was?"

"You were pretty nice all considered. I think we got along quite well there near the end of it." Doc scratched through the number he hadn't been able to finish before the screen flipped to the next item. He pushed his glasses up on his face. "But I still maintain there was no Stockholm Syndrome involved."

"Yup, and that's why you saved me from the cliff, and helped fix the wounds, and are here on the couch after all that horrible stuff I did to you." Wash snorted. "No clinging to your attacker here."

"I'd like to think I'd do those things for any friend."

Wash's throat tightened. Wash was Caboose's New Church. He was Tucker's annoyance. He was the Red Team's new Rival leader. But that. Wash forced himself to swallow. "Are we—"

"Yes," Doc said, not looking his direction. His hands were shaking, and Wash looked at his own. He clenched his fists. That word probably meant something to their medic, too. Wash sucked in a breath when Doc confirmed, for the both of them: "Definitely yes."

Wash licked his lips, and tilted his head. He looked over at the other man with his wild brown hair, and wire-framed glasses. Bright eyes trying very hard to stay on the screen, definitely not sneaking peaks in the ex-Freelancer's direction. Wash slumped down in the couch seat, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles.

"So why were you talking about sleeping on the base floor?" Wash asked, a smile tugging on the edge of his lip.

"Excuse me?" Doc asked. "I just assumed that's where you'd have room. I'm not going to kick someone out of their bedroom just to let me stay. That'd be rude and—"

"Hey," Wash interrupted. "Last I checked, friends crash on the couch."

"Oh," Doc said, eyes wide. He looked down at his seat on the ugly plaid pattern, and across the middle cushion to Wash. He opened his mouth once, closed it. And smiled. "I am already pretty comfortable right here."

"Then it's settled," Wash said. He rubbed under his nose with his index finger. "You'll stay on the couch."

"Thank you," Doc said. He relaxed an inch, a tension releasing that Wash hadn't even noticed had been there. Doc had worn it like a second skin, and he looked better without it. Less lines on his face, and body limp. Wash grinned. It was a good thing.

Wash would have to remember to do something good for Caboose later. The couch was a good idea.


	2. Off Duty - Sarge and Wash

_Written in May 2013_

I have _Red vs Blue_ on the brain, and I read a nice post about Sarge & Wash's relationship, and since they're my favorite characters and, again, I have RvB on the brain, I decided to write something about them.

It's sort of pointless fluff and character introspection, but I had fun writing it. Needed something easy today that didn't really go anywhere. Enjoy!

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**Off Duty**

_Characters: _ Sarge & Red Team, Washington & Blue Team

_Rating: _G/K+

_Summary: _Washington is nothing like Flowers, and sometimes downtime is a good thing.

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Sarge tipped back his shot of bourbon, tapping the little pink umbrella Donut had stuck in the glass on the kitchenette bar-top counter. Grif and Simmons argued over the remote in the background, over whether or not to watch reruns of _The Sopranos _if he had heard correctly. Sarge tilted the glass sideways, letting the chunks of ice hit each other. Donut, in the meantime, whistled happily in the background as he cleaned the weapons from the stash they'd won back from the dirty Blues in the last battle.

Sarge snorted, flicking the top of his glass. _Won back from the Blues._

Today had been a "Red Victory" in their little simulation war. Sarge couldn't help but feel an odd mixture of pride and bitterness over the Blue Flag that was hanging over the television. The Blues hadn't started negotiations to return it yet, but that was pretty normal now a days. Both teams had learned to appreciate the bits of downtime after each 'win.' It often made their 'war' more interesting in the long run. Still didn't change Sarge's mixed feelings over seeing the Blue Flag in their base for the first time since Donut got his "lightish-red" armor.

On the one hand, the Reds had won the 'fight' of the day, which was pretty impressive considering their endless streak of losses since Washington took over the Blues. Sarge was impressed that Donut had managed to distract both Caboose and Tucker long enough with a grenade barrage for Grif and Simmons to steal the flag. It was teamwork, and it did Sarge proud.

On the other hand, they'd only won because Washington had sat out this particular fight.

Sarge smirked to himself. Officially, Washington had left the canyon for a quick recon trip to the closest UNSC base to check up on their Wanted Status. Leaving Blue Base in the hands of Tucker, it was the perfect opening for a Red Attack. No Ex-Freelancer to win the fight or coordinate? It was easy as iced tea. There was no way Sarge would pass up the opportunity to coordinate a counter-strike.

And Washington knew it.

Sarge wasn't a fool, despite his over-eagerness to kill the Blues. He knew a set-up when he saw it. Washington was too honorable a man to willingly throw a fight, thus their never-ending loss streak since he took over. Sarge pat his pistol, freshly returned after handing it over in a past surrender. Washington was also, however, a man who liked to play fair. Washington had arranged the perfect chance for Red Team to get all their stuff back without insulting them by throwing a fight, or just giving it back.

Moral was up, their things were back, and no one aside from Sarge was the wiser.

For a Dirty Blue, Sarge had an inkling of respect for the Wash. A hell of a lot more than he ever had for Captain Flowers, though.

Sarge scowled thinking of the previous Blue Leader.

Washington and Flowers shared one thing in common: They were both ridiculously good fighters, and they both knew it. Only, where Washington refused to lose a fight—even when it was obvious he was barely trying to win—Flowers refused to show his potential at all. He faked it. Sarge ground his teeth, in his mouth under the sound of cooking instructions and Grif mumbling about food.

Any army man could see it in Flowers posture and behavior. That was a man who knew what he was doing. Under all that kindness and love talk, there was something hard and trained. He could have taken out Red Team at any point. Unlike Washington, Flowers had no reason to stick to non-lethal fights. At the time, the war was real to the both of them and it drove Sarge crazy Flowers pitied them out of "kindness."

But, Flowers was dead. Heart attack in his sleep. Sarge rubbed between his eyes. A fate he wouldn't wish on any soldier. Guy should have died in battle! If he ever really participated, that is. But, what happened, happened and Church was left in charge. Sarge snorted. Unlike Flowers, he was legitimately incompetent at battle strategy, and couldn't have hit the broadside of one of Donut's barns back home. Church's promotion to leadership was the start of their eternal stalemate with neither side making a move. It wasn't worth it.

And now they had Washington, and he was probably the best thing to happen to their little canyon in a long time, whether or not Sarge wanted to admit it out loud.

The guy was nice to Caboose, he could keep Tucker in line, he knew how to handle Grif and Simmons, and was oddly kind to Donut. He could also fight like a man, could think strategically enough to keep up with Sarge, and had one of the most level-heads for a crazy-person Sarge had ever seen. He could respect that.

He was also a kid.

Sarge was used to dealing with children, though, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. His base was overrun with them. Blue Team was made up of them, save for Flowers. And while Washington was 'mature,' and hid it better than the others, Sarge knew a scared kid when he saw one. On his own, Washington was mature, responsible, and level headed. Sarge stroked the side of his glass. But when you compared the guy to the rest of the Freelancers they'd met, it was obvious he didn't stack up.

They were all better fighters, smarter, and had an air of maturity that made Agent Washington look like a kid trying to fake it. At least the man had started to relax around his new team, it suited him more.

Sarge huffed. Feeling pity and respect for the Blues. Just what was the world coming to? Sarge was getting too old for this.

"Want me to top that off, sir?" Donut asked from the floor, pointing at Sarge's drink. He scrambled off the floor just in time to miss the remote smacking into the floor next to him. Grif and Simmons froze in their fighting when Sarge glared at them, and they slowly sat on the couch, wisely content to watch whatever channel it had landed on—Cooking Network. Donut ignored them both, popping up on the counter. "Oh! Oh! Or I could try this new thing? I got a new mixed drink book and you look like a Cosmopolitan guy to me! It's even red!"

"Uh, sure," Sarge said, shaking his head. Donut squeaked in delight, and grabbed his empty glass making a run for the other side of the counter. He was in that blasted pink apron, lined in Chantilly lace before Sarge could blink. "As long as there's liquor in it!"

"Righty-o!"

Shaking his head, Sarge leant on the counter, turning toward the television. Donut was humming in the background, while Simmons commented there was no possible way for Grif to eat half of what the woman was making without killing himself. Sarge chuckled to himself. _Same old, same old._

"This is how you guys celebrate a win?"

"Sweet Criminy!" Sarge jumped off the bar stool, and turned around. His exclamation drew the attention of Donut, Grif and Simmons to Agent Washington standing by their kitchen stool. Wash bit his lip to stifle the grin on his face. Sarge straightened and poked Washington twice in the chest. "When in the sam hell did you get here!?"

"I walked in a few minutes ago," Washington chuckled. He put his hands in the pockets of his cammo pants, armor nowhere to be seen. Sarge huffed, and relaxed a fraction. Looks like they were 'off duty' then for this encounter. Washington rubbed under his nose, looking off to the side like a guilty school kid. "Not my fault you guys were occupied."

"I hate it when you Freelancer types do that," Sarge mumbled to himself. He supposed they deserved a trick or two to themselves, but gosh darn it he needed to put a bell on that kid! Sarge sat back down on the stool. "You need something, soldier?"

"Caboose is missing his picture book," Washington said. He rubbed the back of his cropped blonde hair. "We can't find it in the base, and he's upset. I thought it might have gotten stuffed in the box of weapons you guys took."

"And you're here to negotiate its return?" Sarge said.

"Not really." Washington shrugged. "I was going to just ask for it back."

"We claimed that equipment in a raid, I think negotiations for surrender are in order," Sarge said. He leant back on the counter. "We won it fair and square, after all."

"I could always just tell Caboose I saw it over here."

"Fair point, Blue," Sarge admitted. The thought of Caboose rampaging through his base, upturning furniture and weapons to look for his book sent a chill down his spine. Sarge turned over the counter. "Hey Cupcake, you see a picture book when you were polishin' those guns?"

"Nope! I think I would have noticed a book after polishing all those long and hard—"

"All I needed to know, thanks." Sarge turned to Grif and Simmons. "What about you two? See Caboose's book?"

"No, sir!" Simmons said.

"Nope," Grif answered.

Washington's shoulders dropped and he huffed. His eyes went back and forth, like he was reading a list in his head. Washington pressed his lips together. "Then where is it? He's only got the one, and we've looked everywhere in our base for it."

"Maybe it's under his bed. That's where Grif hides all of his picture books!" Donut said cheerfully as he put Sarge's Cosmopolitan on the table top. Washington glanced at it when a smirk, and Sarge kicked him the nosy-Freelancer in the leg. He took a deliberate swig that had Donut nodding in approval. "Though Grif's books probably aren't something Caboose should be reading."

"Donut! What were you doing under my bed?" Grif shouted, leaning over the back of their worn red couch.

"Well, it's not like you'd let me get on top of it!"

"Both of you shut up!" Simmons yelled, covering his ears. "Caboose's book! Focus on that!"

"Well, okay." Donut crossed his arms. "Let's make a list of possible places we can double check! Maybe he took it outside and left it or something. I used to do that on the farm all the time!"

"Maybe," Washington said. His posture dropped and he shook his head. "So much for my hunch it was over here."

"Hey Wash! You in here!?" Tucker called from the Red Base doorway. He was dressed down in civvies, blue jeans and a tee shirt. "We found Caboose's stupid picture book!"

"It's not stupid! You're stupid, Tucker!" Caboose shouted, clutching a large hard-cover book to his chest. Sarge smiled as the kid stomped his foot. That was two-for-two dirty Blues who weren't all that bad. Sarge shook his head. He was losing his touch. Caboose stomped into the base and stood in front of Washington. "Tucker is the stupid one!"

"Shut up!" Tucker yelled back, following Caboose into Red base. "I had to waste my time looking for your dumb book because Wash wouldn't let me watch my shows while you were crying!"

"It's good you found it," Washington said, ignoring Tucker like a good leader should. Tucker was the Grif of Bluebase, so Sarge could respect that. Washington tapped the edge of the book. "Where was it, Caboose?"

"On the roof, can you believe that?" Tucker looked over at the bar. "Dude, you guys have liquor!? Wash doesn't let us have liquor! Hey, Donut! Make me a drink."

Both Sarge and Washington sighed at the same time as Tucker made himself comfortable on the bar stool, and Donut started to pull out bottles. Tucker kicked off his shoes under the counter, making it very clear he wasn't going anywhere for a while.

"Washington," Caboose said, his voice low. "Since, since we found my book can-you-read-it-please?" His words were rushed in his excitement.

"Sure, Caboose," Washington said, a smile tugging on the side of his face. He took the book as Caboose whooped.

Sarge shook his head as Caboose grabbed Washington's hand and dragged him to the corner where Donut had been polishing. Washington may have been a kid to Sarge, but he was definitely the resident parent of Blue Team. Kids raisin' kids, would wonders never cease?

The Red Drink tasted good, Sarge would admit, as he sipped it. Donut and Tucker argued in the background over the proper ratio of liquor in the mixed drinks. Grif and Simmons yelled for Wash to toss them the remote so they could argue over a new show. He complied—hitting Grif in the face to Sarge's delight—and turned his attention back to Caboose. The Blue soldier hugged Wash's arm to the point of cutting off the circulation as he bounced in his seat waiting for the next page to turn as Wash read. Sarge watched them all.

Downtime wasn't so bad.


	3. Blue Team - Wash and Tucker

_Originally Written in May 2013_

I wanted to write Wash having a breakdown while he's on Blue Team, and follow it up with shameless fluff.

So I did.

On another note, I'm slowly coming to accept and embrace the fanon idea that Caboose is a big guy, towering a good head or two over everyone like Maine. 3

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**Blue Team**

_Characters: _ Washington & Blue Team

_Rating: _ K+ for language.

_Summary: _Washington has nightmares, and Blue Team doesn't care.

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Wash was in full armor, still breathing heavily and heart still pounding. Well, he was almost in full armor. Wash's helmet was on its side a few feet away on the rooftop, swaying back and forth on its rounded top. He'd had it on for two minutes before the confined space overwhelmed him and he needed it off because _he couldn't breathe. _Wash half wondered why he bothered to put everything on in the first place.

The wind blew through his hair, and he covered his head with the back of his hands as he leant over on his knees. That's right: He had run outside. No point in running out in your boxers in the open, where everyone can see you, even if you are having a mild panic att—

"Agent Washington!" Caboose shouted, scrambling up onto the rooftop. He tackled Wash in the side, and lifted him in a bone-crushing hug. Wash's feet dangled an inch above the ground and Caboose squeezed harder, on the verge of panic. "You are not dead or bleeding!"

"Caboose!?" Wash yelped, arms trapped at his sides by the kid's Omega-like grip. What were they feeding this kid? Seriously!

"Caboose, you moron! Put him down before you break him! We already go through Leaders like popcorn! Don't add to it!" Tucker said, climbing up the last few steps of the ramp to the roof. Caboose looked at them both in turn, before opening his arms and dropping Wash to the ground. Tucker snorted. "Good boy."

Wash rubbed his chest through his armor, fairly certain he had a bruise developing. He blew a breath, hoping his armor wasn't dented. Caboose wrung his hands and Tucker looked annoyed. Wash cleared his throat, and suddenly felt exposed without his helmet. "What are you two doing up?"

"Three guesses and the first two don't count," Tucker said. He snapped his fingers at Caboose. "Hey, now that you know Wash isn't dead, go get him a glass of water or something. Be helpful."

"Okay! I can do that!" Caboose said, the worry on his face falling away like water. He ran back the direction he came calling out "Water time!"

Alone, Wash looked over at Tucker, and sat back down on the edge of the wall where he had been perched earlier. "Was I screaming earlier?"

"Dude, I'm pretty sure you woke up Grif in Red Base," Tucker said, kicking him in the leg. "You freaked out Caboose man."

"Sorry."

"You should be. I was half-way trying to explain what a 'night terror' was so he'd leave you alone, and stop bothering me to go 'rescue you,' but then your agonized yells cut dead off." Tucker tapped the top of his finger against his sword blade. He lifted it, crossing his arms. "After that, there was no stopping him from rushing to check on you."

"But I wasn't in my room," Wash guessed. Not that he would be. The second he woke up, Wash had to get out of his room. He'd set a record for donning his armor and sprinting into the open.

"Nope."

Wash covered his head again. "Sorry, again."

"Eh, not your fault." Tucker shifted again from one foot to the other. He avoided eye contact with Wash, and kept his focus on one of the glowing blue lights atop their base. "I'd be a little more worried if you _weren't_ having nightmares and shit."

Wash lifted an eyebrow at Tucker. "Oh?"

"Epsilon was uh, talkative." Tucker scratched at his arm. "About you and Carolina."

Wash almost growled. "Oh, I bet he was."

"Not that he needed to tell us anything, I mean with what we saw from that Freelancer bullshit, a guy's gotta' be messed up after that." Tucker paused. "Look at Tex, and Wyoming, and The Meta. You guys had issues, man."

"Tell me about it."

The two soldiers were quiet for a moment with the endless sun shining high over head. Wash glanced toward the Red Base across the Blood Gulch canyon. He covered his mouth, and bit his lip. His words felt as heavy as he felt. "You really think they heard me at Red Base?"

"Dude, I was just teasing," Tucker said. He started, and shifted in his armor like he didn't know what to do with himself. "And even if they did, who cares what they think?"

"I do," Wash said. He shifted his foot, and stood. Uncomfortable in his own skin, he walked away from Tucker. He watched Red Base, so quiet and still on the other side of the canyon. And turned back to their own. Wash couldn't take it. He'd been caught in the middle of a stupid nightmare of all things hiding on the roof. It was…it was _embarrassing._ "That's just it! I _do_ care what they think! I care what _you_ think!"

"Uh, why? What does our opinion matter?" Tucker said, his gaze followed Wash as he started to pace. "You're the awesome Freelancer, dude."

"But I'm not! You guys really don't get it, do you? I'm not an awesome Freelancer." Wash turned and held his hands out, pleadingly. "I was the joke of the entire program!"

Wash continued, not giving Tucker a chance to intervene. "I was always out of the loop, they were always yelling at me to shut up. I never knew what anyone was talking about. I was the worst fighter on the team, which didn't help that I was still somehow in 6th place on the leaderboard. And when I didn't understand something or asked a question I was teased, mercilessly by people I thought were friends—"

"Dude, we do that all the time," Tucker interrupted. "It's part of being friends."

"This was different, Tucker," Wash said. "You guys make fun of each other, and even Caboose gets a dig in once in a while. This, this was _them _making fun of_me._ If I found some way to tease back, I usually got shot down pretty quickly. It was never funny, but I still thought of them as friends no matter how badly of assholes they were.

"But, I was wrong. Because at the end of the day," Wash paused, and covered his face. He couldn't even begin to fathom how he'd started on this subject of all things, but now that he _was_ there, Wash couldn't stop. The words kept coming. "C.T. left, and got herself killed. Maine went crazy. York and North probably liked me, or at least were the nicest when they weren't teasing, but they had Carolina and South on the priority list way ahead of me. Carolina was obsessed with Texas. And that was all before I was reassigned to Recovery One! Then, South shot me in the back, leaving me for dead—and then _I _shot her in the face. I killed all the AI units myself, even Delta and Theta. Maine tried to kill me. And Carolina—Caroline left, too. She could have stayed with me and you guys, but she chose to leave, too."

"You guys are all I've got." Wash dropped his hands to his sides. "With the Freelancers I was a joke half the time, but with you guys—"

"Yeah, yeah," Tucker said, and Wash could almost see the eye-roll under his helmet. "We're the simulation soldiers and you get to be the big, bad Freelancer. You're the king of the hill around us. I get it, really."

"I was going to say equal, but after how I acted when we met I can see how you'd get that impression." Wash sighed. "But now, I realize we're all about the same level, so it's not that big of a deal if we all make fun of each other. We're on even ground."

"Don't take this the wrong way, dude, but I think you're a little bit above us," Tucker said. "You can kick all of our asses without blinking, and don't get me started on your rifle work."

"I was defeated by Sarge and Grif, and let me remind you that it was you guys who beat The Meta. Not me." Wash sighed. "Maybe individually I could take you, but as a group I think you guys have me beat."

"According to Grif you took out a Hornet by yourself, with only a gun from the ground."

"Not the point, I'm making."

"Just saying."

"Military training aside then!" Wash looked both ways, and said, "At the very least, you guys are easily as smart as I am." He paused. "At least you, Simmons, and Doc anyway. Sometimes Sarge and Grif."

"So, you care about what we think 'cause you don't want us to ditch you? That it?" Tucker said, reading between the lines. "I sum that up?"

"Pretty much," Wash said, dropping his shoulders. He rubbed his face with both of his hands. What was wrong with him tonight? "Yeah."

"What do you think, Caboose?" Tucker asked, looking over Wash's shoulder.

Wash turned around only to be trapped in a giant hug, once again. A cup of water clattered to the ground, splashing its contents across the concrete roof. Caboose squeezed once more before holding Wash up by the arms and holding him out in front of him.

"Caboose?" Wash asked, slightly intimidated by Caboose's narrowed, concentrated gaze.

"Are we friends, Agent Washington?" Caboose asked.

Wash squirmed in the kid's grip. "Yes?"

"Friends don't ditch friends." Caboose nodded with the finality of the statement, and dropped Wash to his feet for the second time that night. "Even if they sometimes shoot them in the back. Which isn't a big deal."

"Right, Caboose." Wash said, the smile tugging on his lips. This is what he needed. He really—among these Simulation soldiers—felt more at home here than he ever did at Project Freelancer. "You got it."

"Then no more worrying! 'Cause we like you!" Caboose said. "You're nice, and you beat the Reds, and have Freelancer powers!"

"If you say so, Caboose." Wash said, smiling. Caboose's enthusiasm was contagious.

"So, says the both of us. And back to what started this mess—seriously, dude." Tucker asked, thumping the ex-Freelancer in the chest. "Screw what Red Team thinks. You're Blue Team for life."

Wash asked, "Screaming night terrors and all?"

"Duh, now let's go back to bed before the stupid Reds wake up and start shooting at us."

"Sounds good," Wash said. He leaned down and grabbed his helmet, before turning to grab the empty cup of water. "Sleep is definitely good."

"So after you, leader-boy," Tucker said, waving his hand at Wash. "Get going. We'll follow."

"Right," Wash said. _The Leader_. That'd take some getting used to. He looked over his shoulder at Caboose and Tucker. At least he had a great team. "Then let's go."

They were halfway down the ramp, when Wash heard Caboose whisper, "Tucker."

"Yeah, Caboose?" He answered, yawning inside his helmet. "What?"

"I'm really glad you let me keep Agent Washington."

"Yeah, me too, buddy. Me, too."

Wash thanked his awesome Freelancer powers for steady steps as he headed back into his room. He had a feeling at least for tonight, the nightmares would stay away.


	4. Integration - Delta and Wash

_Originally Written in May 2013_

I needed some Delta x Wash. Why did I fall for this pairing? Why? *sobs*

Despite all that, I'm pretty sure this qualifies as Gen-Fic. It also sort of just drops off in a weird place, but I'm not sure if it'll be continued or not. Heh. Bad author. :P

Oh, and there's **_spoilers_** for the series below. Fair warning. XD

* * *

**Integration**

_Characters:_ Delta A.I. & Agent Washington

_Rating:_ K+

_Summary:_ Delta refuses to take 'No' for an answer when Agent Washington denies integration during their pursuit of The Meta at the wind-power facility.

* * *

Delta listened to Agent Washington as he described their plan to ambush the recharging Meta. He also listened to the many voices inside of Caboose's head, constantly in motion and processing data input in the most illogical fashion possible. While Delta felt no ill-will toward the young simulation soldier, his brainwave patterns were taxing. It was like dealing with a small child, who somehow knew the art of war and the consequences of accidentally shooting their peers.

This was not something he needed when The Meta was tracking them down, and threatening everyone's lives.

Church's constant negative commentary was not exactly a pleasantry, either.

As Wash moved to leave, Delta took his chance and spoke up. "Agent Washington, perhaps it would be best if I assisted you in battle rather than helping Caboose."

Delta noted there was not even a hint of hesitation with his reply of "No."

Well that wouldn't do.

Delta, ever used to a frustrating Freelancer due to his—while enjoyable—stay with Agent—no, York, tried again: "Statistically speaking, a Freelancer would be much better trained to use my—"

"I said no. Now get going." There was even less of a hesitation this time.

While he sympathized with Agent Washington's hesitations, as with York, it seemed Delta would have to take a firmer hand on the subject. As Agent Washington took his first step away from the team, Delta used his disciplinary voice for whenever York was mischievous: "Agent Washington I must insist. Unless it is too your plan to leave me for The Meta?"

His accusation earned the logical, and desired response. Agent Washington stopped, and turned back to face Delta. "What? No, of course not! I—I just don't use A.I. and you know damn well why. Sorry, but it's not happening. Not again."

"With all due respect, I am of no use to the simulation soldier, and he is in no shape to fight The Meta, as you yourself are barely able to take him on. Your current course of action is the equivalent of leaving me unguarded, and from prior experience with Agent South, I can only assume I am therefore 'bait.'"

"No!" Delta detected the increased heart rate, and agitation in the Agent. Good. "Look, Delta, I get what you're saying and I don't want anything to happen to you, but I won't be of help to anybody if I freak out during integration."

"Agent Washington," Delta said. "I am aware of your history, and since time is short, I will be brief: During at any point that you knew the two of us, did I cause Agent York distress?"

Agent Washington's fingers twisted around his pistol, and the two Simulation soldiers watched, intrigued by the conversation. He shook his head, "No."

"Do you believe my integration responsible for Agent South attacking you?"

"What? No! Of course not. Why would you want to shoot me?"

"Precisely." Delta hovered closer to Agent Washington's face. "Your experience with Epsilon was due to an unstable, defective A.I. fragment. As I am neither of those things, this hesitation of yours is illogical and merely putting yourself and others at risk when I am an effective tool that could be put to use."

"Panic usually isn't logical—"

"Time is short, Agent Washington," Delta cut off the young Agent. "You will be fine, and I must insist on this course of action. Your accuracy rating will be boosted by approximately 40%, and your scanning equipment will be doubled. Those are defaults, without any further interaction on my part. I will be as non-intrusive as possible."

The man hesitated, and The Meta cried out down below as he manipulated the equipment.

Delta pushed. "It is best we do this now, Agent Washington."

"Fine," Agent Washington's voice was a whisper. He gripped the weapon, tighter and unclipped the A.I. slot component on his armor. "Fine! But don't blame me if I have a panic attack while you're in there."

"That will not be a problem," Delta said.

Delta entered his world of dark when he detached from Caboose. Storage was quiet. Lonely. The world burst into life with a full stream of new information moments later.

Relax, Delta commanded immediately. Agent Washington's mind was a whirlwind of panic and agonizing memories of pain dragged to the surface from his last experience. Delta soothed as best he could. We don't have much time, but we have this minute. Breathe Agent Washington. Ignore me. Just in, and out. Breathe.

The Agent's breaths were thick and heavy, on the verge of panic, but there were steady. As Delta waited for Agent Washington's breathing to adjust and calm to acceptable levels, he sorted information.

Agent Washington's entire mind was open to Delta. Every memory, every feeling, every inner thought, twitch, and spark of data flowing through the man's mind. Soaking it all in was as natural as breathing, and he knew other A.I. felt the same.

Delta often wondered if the Freelancers had any idea how much information the A.I. Units had access to during integration. To use the colloquial phrase, their minds became "open books." During his first integration with Agent York, logic and traces of distrust made it logical to not volunteer the information. Delta realized immediately that the information exchange was not two-way, and used that to his advantage to foster the best working environment. He could know everything, and Agent York would only know what Delta believed it was in his best interest to know.

It was efficient, and they were a good team.

Agent Washington, on the other hand, surely had a much better grasp on the power Delta had in his head. While not completely certain, the damage caused by Epsilon was so extensive and reached back so far into Agent Washington's memories, he had to know that they integrated more deeply than a surface touch from the back of their armor.

In fact, Delta noticed, it seemed Agent Washington knew more about the A.I. Units, their Director, The Alpha, and the entire program than he realized. Delta had not given the Agent enough credit. In Epsilon's failed self-termination attempt, it seems he became a 'two-way street.' Epsilon's memories were fractured, but clear enough to be dangerous. Delta's impression of Agent Washington increased the further he dug into the files. However, he did not have long to do so.

Agent Washington's breathing calmed, and he was lucid. Delta's musings would wait for another time. Agent Washington?

"Yeah," the Agent replied out loud.

Delta would deal with internal responding later. The Meta was just over the ledge. Time is short, so I'll be brief. You're going to feel me in your head, Agent Washington. Breathe easy and let it happen. Your skills lie in marksmanship, so I will not assist you in aiming or the drawing of your weapon. I will, however, assist in making your targets known. I point out the target, you shoot. Understood?

"This is so weird," Agent Washington said. He shook his head, and Delta could feel his discomfort. He drew back, leaving the Agent more isolated in his own mind. Agent Washington responded well, but held to his aggression. "And go into the hologram, you're freaking me out back there."

"Freaking us out here with the crazy dude talking to himself," Church said. "There's that, too."

"As you wish," Delta said, appearing next to him. He ignored the other A.I. for now, and concentrated on his new partner. "Shall we proceed?"

"Yes," Agent Washington agreed. "You two remember what you're doing? Wait for the sign, and attack."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Yes, sir-scary-freelancer-person!"

Delta and Agent Washington rounded the corner, leaving the two simulation soldiers to their own devices, and made their way around the corridor.

"I have something important I wish to discuss with you, Agent Washington," Delta began as soon as he felt they were out of range. He took the liberty of switching off their com links.

"Aren't we a little busy, right now?" Agent Washington replied, resisting the urge to scratch where the A.I. chip was implanted. "But you're going to tell me, anyway, right?"

"Yes," Delta said. "I believe that Private Church may be the Alpha, and if not the Alpha, he is at the very least a highly advanced A.I. Unit."

Agent Washington stopped dead in his tracks. "What did you just say?"

"While in Private Caboose's head, I gathered quite a bit of information on the two simulation soldiers. I waited for further information to confirm my theory as we traveled, and I find it to be sound."

"Start over. What now?"

"According to Caboose's memory, Church is a 'ghost.' However, I feel this is simply a misunderstanding due to his lack of intelligence. After sorting through his memories for more details, I feel it is safe to classify him as an A.I. Unit inhabiting a robotic body. Due to his name, and the small number of A.I. Units in distribution, it is safe to assume he may be the Alpha."

"If you're right, then this—"Agent Washington cut himself off, and Delta read his thoughts loud and clear. He may have assisted in the expediency of the thought process, but he felt confident Agent Washington would have gotten there on his own in due time. "We need to get as far away from The Meta as possible."

"Agreed, however we must not let Church know. It seems he is unaware of himself."

"Right," Agent Washington looked over the edge. He turned on his com link, "New plan guys. The Meta's looking in better shape than I thought. I don't want to risk it, so I'll meet you at your location and we'll sneak out the—"

Agent Washington stopped talking, and scrunched his eyebrows. "Do I hear polka music?"

"Oh, no," Church said over the lines. "Not these idiots."

Caboose came through loud and clear over the line, "It's the Reds!"

The Meta roared as a M12 LRV crashed into the area, smacking into him. A group of Red Simulation soldiers hollered as they began to shoot and draw attention.

Agent Washington sighed. "I did not need this today."

"We could use the distraction to our advantage and escape?" Delta offered.

"We should probably help them," Agent Washington said, turning back around to find the best location to ambush The Meta with his prepared grenades. Delta was taken aback by the urge to assist. "May I ask how that would help our situation?"

"It doesn't," Agent Washington said. "But if I can't turn my back on you, a fragment of an A.I., I shouldn't turn my back on those idiots either. I'm not like South."

"No, no you're not."

"Besides, Caboose seems to know them." The Agent pulled his weapon at the ready with one hand over the ledge, and held a grenade in the other. He twisted his finger in the pin, and sat waiting for the right moment to throw. "He'll be upset if his friends get hurt."

Delta paused, wondering where Agent Washington had retrieved that information. Delta was aware due to the information he'd gleaned from Caboose. Agent Washington should not know such a thing unless he—Delta halted.

Perhaps he hadn't given Agent Washington enough credit in his experience with A.I. Units. "Well played, Agent Washington."

"Less flattery, more targets, Delta!" Agent Washington shouted, shooting at The Meta, and trying to avoid the Red's tires.

Delta opened his senses and proceeded to display every possible target that would aid Agent Washington. They could chat about integration later. Delta had a feeling it would be interesting. "Affirmative."


	5. Company - Crazy Doc and Wash

_Originally Written in June 2013_

I had the urge to write some Dark!Fic, and Crazy!Doc and Victim!Wash was too tempting.

Uh, yeah. *coughs* I think I just wanted to write something dark with Doc and Wash. Wash is adorable and I felt like picking on him. And by 'picking on' I mean make miserable. So I wrote this quick little number.

So, I'm just gonna' post this and go hide.

* * *

**Company**

_Characters:_ Agent Washington & Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Red Team & Blue Team

_Pairing:_ Doc x Wash

_Rating:_ T to M (It's right on the line, I think)

**_Warnings:_**** Crazy!Doc, Restraints, Drugging, Violence (Hitting/Tasers/Etc.), Psycological Manipulation, Codependence.**

_Summary:_ DuFresne has had enough of being left behind. He wanted company. Company that wanted him around. If he learned anything from O'Mally, it's that sometimes you have to take what you want. And unfortunately for Agent Washington, stockholm syndrome runs deep.

* * *

Wash felt like Caboose had thrown a grenade at his head. Or was it Donut who threw the grenades? Wash tapped his forehead against something hard once to jostle his thoughts. There was a pounding ache at the back of his neck that reminded him of getting tossed around the training field back in the Freelancer Program. He shook his head out once, head feeling light and opened his eyes. He expected to see the HUD of his visor making notes of his surroundings and the familiar yellow tinting, but instead—everything was blurry, dim, and naturally colored.

As his vision adjusted to the low lighting, and he came to full consciousness, Washington noticed some very important facts about his situation: His armor was missing, he was dressed in pair of grey sweats and a plain t-shirt, he was laid out on a concrete floor, and his wrists were bound behind his back. Wash heard the steady beeping of a pair of UNSC restraining cuffs and cursed.

Training took over from that point. Wash took note of the grey-painted room he found himself in as he tried to remember what he was doing before the world went black. He tried to sit up, but the world spun and he felt nauseous—drugged. He breathed in and out, steady and slow. The UNSC must have found them in Blood Gulch and caught them all off guard. That was the only explanation.

Wash closed his eyes. Simmons. He'd been helping Simmons repair his rocket launcher, when—Wash growled. He couldn't remember. What had happened?

He sucked in a breath and rolled full onto his stomach. He shoved down the urge to vomit as he pushed up onto his knees using his shoulders and the wall as a brace. The world spun as he sat up, but he used his focus to stay upright. Whatever was in his system was on its way out, or he had a feeling he'd be worse off.

Wash licked his lips, and wet his mouth. He turned around at his waist, spotting the door at the front of the room. A small red light was lit on a key pad next to the frame. Electronic locks. Wash could work with that.

He faced forward again and sucked in a breath. He just had to get to his feet. Get to his feet. Get to the door. Get out. Get to his team and make sure they were okay. It was a plan, not a great one, but a plan all the same. Wash shifted on his knees until he could push up. He just had to get to the feet part.

"Ah, shucks. You woke up early."

Washington tensed, his entire body went rigid at the sound of the intruder. He knew that voice. Wash looked over his shoulder. "Doc?"

"I knew I took too long setting up your room," Doc said, dressed in his purple armor. Wash stared at the man, wide eyed. This is the guy who knocked him out? _Doc!?_ The medic crossed his arms, and tilted his head. "You weren't supposed to see this one. Much too bare, and I hated having to leave you on the floor."

"Doc," Wash said. With a sudden need to defend his pride and disciplined training now that there was an audience, Wash pushed up to his feet. Even without his armor, he was an inch taller than Doc. "What is going on?"

"You woke up early."

Wash bit his lip hard enough to bleed to stop the scream when the taser he failed to notice was shoved into his stomach.

* * *

His hands were still bound, but this time Wash woke on a bed. He was on top of a quilted duvet cover clad in grey and yellow. It smelled like fresh dye and fabric softener. From his side, he could see a small side table with a few journals and a pen sitting on top of a lace doily. There was a small square-cut carpet on the concrete floor, yellow, and a black duffle bag leaning against the side-table.

Wash was more disturbed the glass wall six feet from the bed. He sat up, head clearer than before. Wash pushed his feet over the side, his bare feet landing on the carpet square. Sitting up, he spotted the thin outline of a door, and a small open slot above a clear shelf just next to it.

On the right side, there was an opaque square that had a drain on the floor in front of a squat toliet and a shower head drilled into the wall.

Wash was in a glass prison cell decorated like a bedroom.

The cell was nestled in the corner of a much larger great room, so the walls to his left and back were solid, even though he could see the clear walls of the cell were on all four sides. The larger room had a kitchenette on the far right side, a coffee table in the center, and a large flat screen on the wall directly across from him. There were two sitting chairs to the right of the coffee table, and a very large dresser sitting flush with the left side wall. Wash spotted the pull handle toward the top: Pull-down bed.

Wash tugged at his hands, and hissed when the cuffs scratched against his bare wrists. They were tightened to the max, designed to cuff someone in armor. They refused to budge. Wash huffed, and walked toward the small cut out slot, and said "Doc?"

He was met with silence, and banged on the glass. "Doc! Hey! Can you hear me?"

He heard the sound of keys clattering, and the turning of a lock. He had to press against the glass on the right side of the cell, but around the corner he could see a wooden door. It was pushed open at the base with a foot dressed up in brown leather, and a man entered juggling a few bags of groceries.

The brown paper was moved to the side, and Wash spotted a tan man with dark brown hair, and a pair of oval glasses sitting neatly on his nose. He was in a purple polo shirt, and wore a pair of plain khakis.

The stranger stared at Wash for a full moment in shock, before smiling and saying in a voice that clearly belonged to Doc, "I bet you're always an early riser, aren't you? You keep waking up before I'm ready!"

"What is this, Doc?" Wash asked, banging on the glass with the side of his foot. "Let me out of here!"

Doc dropped the bags onto the kitchenette counter, and adjusted his glasses as he walked up to the wall. "Well, I can't do that second one, but I will say that this," he tapped on the glass, "Is the best use of my overtime pay to date! Can you believe I got this at a Repo Auction for only a few thousand credits?"

"A repo auction had a mobile glass containment cell?" Wash asked, knowing his mouth was hanging open.

"Yup!" Doc tapped on the glass as he walked around and pulled one of the chairs closer to the glass. "They finally finished sorting the last of the confiscated Freelancer program equipment, and the UNSC auctioned it all off two weeks ago."

"They auctioned off top secret Freelancer equipment." Wash licked his lips. That sounded like one of the worst ideas, ever, of all time. "Are you serious?"

"Technically the only top secret things in your facility was the knowledge that the Simulation Troopers were fake, your personal armor suits, and the A.I. Units. Everything else was pretty standard."

"Wait," Wash stopped. "Did you say the UNSC? How'd you buy something from them and not get arrested!?"

"Because like the rest of the simulation soldiers, I was re-integrated back into the UNSC. You all left me behind so much they didn't think I was associated with you. When the Freelancer Program fell apart, and was taken back over by The Chairman, we were all declared innocent parties. Since none of us were aware we weren't in the regular army, and were considered too valuable as assets—thanks to our lovely use of armor—to be completely dismissed, they let us continue serving under a real command. Fun, huh?"

Doc paused and tapped his lip, "You and the rest of Blue Team, and Red Team are all on the wanted list, though."

"Doc," Wash said. This was crazy. He'd been knocked over the head, or taken prisoner, or something by a lunatic and he'd had enough. Wash needed to make sure the rest of his Team and the Reds were okay. If Doc could find them, he was terrified the UNSC might be close behind. "Let me out."

Doc smiled a touch too widely. "Are you hungry yet? I wasn't sure when the nausea would wear off, and you've been out a while. I was thinking something light, like a salad or a BLT."

"Let me out," Wash said again.

"You look like a bacon man," Doc said. He slapped the top of his thighs and pushed off the chair. "BLT it is."

"Doc!" Wash shouted, slamming his shoulder into the glass. The other man ignored him, humming to himself as he dragged bread and a jar of mayonaise out of the bag.

Wash took a few steps back and sat on the bed, his arms sore around the wrists. "Can you at least take the cuffs off?"

"Un-tie a Freelancer after I knocked him out and kidnapped him? Are you crazy?" Doc had the nerve to laugh as he slathered mayo on one side of a piece of toast. "Not going to happen, my friend. It took way too much effort to get you into my house, why would I waste your company by letting you go?"

Wash growled, and thumped his head on the glass.

* * *

Doc fed Wash the sandwich slices dressed in full armor. Wash bit into the toasted bread as held by the purple medic, and the man wiped away the bits of mayonnaise that clung to the corner of his mouth with his glove covered hand. It was embarrassing as hell, but no one was there to see it.

And Wash was starving.

At least Doc didn't gloat about it. He just kept talking about his new job on base and his patients, and other unrelated things while Wash tried to think.

He was still furious about being kidnapped-, but he was at least impressed the medic was covering his bases and considering Wash still a threat even while cuffed. Without his armor, Wash was at a serious disadvantage against Doc. That was more embarrassing than not being able to eat his own food.

Doc held a glass of water to Wash's lips, and he drank. This was probably Doc's only real weakness in the plan. Keeping Wash at full health was going to bite him later. All he needed was a second, and he'd be out. Staying hydrated and fed would make that easier. Wash swallowed a large gulp.

"Why am I really here, Doc?" Wash asked. "And what happened to Simmons? He was right beside me when I blacked out."

"He's still in the canyon. Probably smarting from the taser shock though," Doc hummed, stacking the glass on top of the empty plate. He backed up to the cell door and entered the code to open it—Wash couldn't see, and was aggravated to note all the chimes sounded the same. Doc left and resealed the cell. "The rest of them are fine, too, if you're worried."

"You didn't answer the first question." Wash said.

"It's late, I think I'm going to bunk down for the night." Doc pulled off his helmet, and shook out his hair. "You should probably do the same. See you soon, David."

"David?" Wash asked himself, looking down. How did he know that name? Wash looked up to see Doc hit a button on the side of the cell. The glass flashed once, and solidified opaque, leaving only a sliver of dimmed light in the cell. After a second, the outside light must have went off, as the cell went black. Wash slammed the wall with his shoulder. "DOC!"

* * *

Eight days.

Wash's sense of time wasn't perfect, but he was fairly certain he'd been alone in the cell, walls still solid and light near non-existent, for at least eight days. He was hungry, bored, and his only triumph had been manuevering his hands to his front so he could pull his pants down to use the toilet and operate the shower. Which was good, since his wrists were bleeding after struggling to turn them in the cuffs enough that he could pull his arms under his legs.

Wash knew he should have paid more attention in the cuff breaking lessons back on The Mother of Invention.

He buried his face into the thick fabric of the quilt. He had doodled in the provided journal and scrounged through the duffle bag, but spare clothes he couldn't change into thanks to the cuffs and the blank paper lost their appeal after a few hours. So he slept, and planned, and thought of all the things he was going to do to Doc once he got his hands around him.

Wash pushed off the bed and shuffled to the shower area. He turned on the faucet and dunked his head under the water. He sucked in a breath when the ice-temperature water hit his neck, waking him up.

Sometimes he just thought of Blood Gulch. Did Tucker and the others know what happened to him? Was Simmons really okay, or was this situation worse than he realized? How was Caboose coping? Wash leaned his head on the side of the wall. He really missed them.

Even Grif and Sarge.

A hiss filled the room, and Wash blinked his eyes rapidly across the room. He glanced across the room, the water still pounding in his ears. He flopped back on the wall, glaring at Doc who—wasn't in armor? What sort of game was he playing now?

Wash tensed, and breathed evenly. This would be his only chance. He swallowed. "How'd you know my name?"

"Medical records," Doc said. "F.I.L.S.S. erased all the current files on the Freelancers and the program, but even she didn't have access to the remote back up discs that are disconnected from the system. They were easily recovered and recorded in the new system. Bit of an oversight on The Director's part, if you ask me."

Wash stood straighter. "And how'd you get access?"

"Medic, Medical files, it's pretty obvious if you ask me," Doc said. "Speaking, someone's been without food for five days. I bet you're feeling a little out of it."

Five? Only Five? Wash sucked in a breath. He must have been more out of it than he realized. Or gone soft with the simulation soldiers. How had he lost that much of his touch just by hanging out with the crew? Wash shook his head.

"It's rude to ignore guests."

Wash flinched when Doc jabbed him in the arm with a needle, he pressed a button on the top and the needle pierced his skin in a quick jab. He growled and pushed forward, knocking Doc into the wall. Whatever that was, it was bad.

He made it out the door Doc had left open to the living room before his legs gave out on him. Wash knocked his head into the coffee table as his knees buckled, and groaned as he listened to the soft footsteps of Doc. He saw feet come into his vision and he hissed, "What was in that?"

"Paralytic agent," Doc answered. Wash saw him lean over, and felt him reach under his arms. Okay, so he couldn't move but his nerves still worked. Great. With a heave, Doc pulled Wash off the ground and manuvered him into a chair. Doc breathed heavily, leaning on his knees when he was finished. "I am out of shape."

Doc pulled the second chair around about a foot from Wash and sat down. He crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back. He picked up the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the flat screen. "You have a TV preference? I like soap operas myself, but you strike me as a cop-show sort of guy."

Wash couldn't believe his ears. Caboose made more sense than this. Wash tilted his head to the side, his muscles aching and protesting even that little bit of movement. "What is this? You leave me alone for ei-five days, paralyze me, and then turn on the tv?"

"The five days was to weaken you enough to make sure the paralytic agent worked," Doc said flipping through channels. "Who knows what Freelancer training you've had to counter drugs? The paralytic agent itself, though, is to ward off any tricks you may have out of armor when I allowed you to sit and watch television with me."

"You're insane," Wash said. His arms hung in front on his thighs, still constrained by the cuffs. His body was heavy, and muscles numb. "Absolutely crazy."

"If you keep that up, David, you're not getting any dinner." Doc flipped the channel. "Only soldiers who behave get fed, and I know you're hungry."

"Something is wrong with you," Wash said, eyes wide and feeling a touch of nausea not related to the shot he'd had earlier. "What the hell happened—"

Doc back handed Wash across the face with the butt of the remote, hitting the solid part of his cheekbone. Pain exploded across Wash's face, and his head whipped to the side.

"Bad soliders get punished, David." Doc sat back in his seat. Wash breathed heavily to the side. Doc leaned over and turned his head back toward the screen. "Watch the TV like a good Soldier."

Wash opened his mouth but shut it quickly. He caught sight of the metal pipe leaning against the table. And Doc's hand around the handle.

* * *

Doc was trying to brainwash him.

As ludicrious as it was to contemplate the quiet, pacifist medic doing, that's what Wash figured out was going on.

The starvation, followed only with food if Wash 'behaved.' Aside from his extended times alone, the only human contact he was 'allowed' came from Doc, no matter how well he acted. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the same time every day. TV was after dinner. If Wash had been good, they'd watch a cop show. If he was bad, they watched the cooking channel and Wash went to bed without dinner. Doc had a routine set and engrained, and then he shook it up with days Wash wasn't allowed out of the cell.

The end goal was clearly dependence.

Wash was always drugged to the gills when he was out of his cell. It made figuring out his surroundings and a way to escape his overly pleasant and polite captor harder than he'd like to admit. He couldn't get out of the cell without Doc's help. He couldn't eat without Doc.

He could move around in his cell when the paralytic agent wore off, but he was alone.

Wash hated being alone. He never knew if Doc would leave him in there for a few days, a few hours, or a week. His mind played tricks on him. It was dark, and he was always hungry. He counted down the seconds until Doc would return. And Wash was always off with his guesses of how much time had past.

Doc had to tell him what time it was, or where he was half the time.

It didn't help Doc rearranged the furniture when the cell was opague so he always came out drugged to a new environment, either. Wash leaned heavier on Doc each time. Tried to fight the confusion less and less each time. Desperately clung to whatever nonsense came out of the man's mouth in his depseration for company.

Doc'd deemed the cuffs unnecessary on his last adventure outside the cell. Dinner was pasta with pesto. Doc had to feed him because his hands were too swolen and heavy. Wash hadn't cared, or made a fuss when Doc kiss away a lick of alfreado from the side of his lip. It hadn't been romantic, or sexual. Just intimate. Contact with another person.

Wash was disgustingly impressed with Doc's technique.

Wash was terrified by how much it was working.

* * *

He wasn't paralyzed today.

The world spun around Wash as his foggy mind tried to focus, but he was outside the cell and standing on his own power. Wash wasn't sure what had been in today's needle, but it was different. He swayed in place, glancing around the room and his full height.

Doc had a clock shaped like a cat on the wall. It'd always been too high to see from the chair.

"You like cats, David?" Doc asked, slipping his hand into Wash's. He gently tugged, leading the man toward two doors he'd never noticed in his constant daze. Doc pushed it open and he saw a bed in the center of the room, and a dresser along the wall. There were thick books stacked in corners, and if he squinted he could see words that started with 'M' on the side. Doc rubbed Wash's hand with his thumb. "I like cats, too."

"Cats are nice," Wash mumbled, the words a fog in his head. He felt light and he leaned on Doc. "Where are we?"

"This is my room," Doc said. He dragged Wash over the door's threshold and pushed up his glasses. Doc leaned on Wash's arm, and he played with the man's fingers. HIs smile was bright. It was aimed at Wash. Doc cooed, "It's lonely at night, isn't it?"

"Yes," Wash answered. Night meant closed walls and silence and being alone. No way to tell time. _Alone._ He shivered. "Yes."

"And why is that?" Doc asked, his voice chipper, cutting through the haze. Wash narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Was this a trick question? Doc squeezed his hand. "Why is it lonely at night, David?"

"Because…you're not there?" Wash asked, unsure. That sounded right, but wrong, too. His head hurt.

"That's right!" Doc said. "And since you've been such a good soldier, I thought it would be good to make sure you weren't lonely tonight."

Something sliced through the haze. A single moment of individual comprehension that tightened his stomach and pumped adrenaline through his thick and slowed blood and heartbeat. Wash hoped. "I'm staying with you tonight?"

"If you can be a good soldier." Doc said. He moved away, but held onto Wash's hand. He pat the back and nodded. His eyes were warm behind the glasses. "If you eat all your dinner, and talk to me during TV time. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Wash said. He stood straighter. He could do that. That was easy. And he liked company and dinner time. He could eat on his own now. Doc let him because he was good. Wash could be good. "And then I don't have to go back into the cell?"

"Nope, you can stay with me." Doc rubbed Wash's arm. It was firm and grounding. "Would you like that, David?"

"Yes."

"You want to stay with me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"No one else, right?" Doc asked.

Wash narrowed his eyes. Why did he keep asking the same question. Or questions that didn't make any sense. Wash covered his eyes with his hands and rubbed. "Who else is there?"

"Exactly," Doc said. He let go of Wash's hand, and walked away, back into the main room. "You're such a smart, soldier."

Wash stared at his empty hand. He breathed faster. His hand felt cold. Empty. Doc was leaving. Wash whined, and stumbled after the shorter man.

He followed Doc.

* * *

Sleeping with Doc was much nicer than sleeping alone. It was warm, and the blankets were thick. If he took his pill like a good soldier, Doc would let him snuggle.

Wash clung to the medic, his head buried in the man's chest. Doc would pet his hair. It felt nice. Company was nice.

It was warm. Wash was a good soldier.

* * *

There was no more cell. Only Doc, and their little living room during the day. The bedroom at night.

They talked.

They kept each other company.

Doc said he wasn't lonely when Wash was with him. That was good.

Wash hated being lonely. It didn't feel good.

Being together was much better.

Doc made soup tonight. Wash let Doc feed him with the spoon.

* * *

Wash lost track of the days. Doc threw out the calendar.

They didn't need it.

* * *

There was someone else in their home.

Wash stared at the soldier in teal—_Aqua_ something told him from the back of his mind in a voice he didn't recognize—standing in the middle of his room. Wash looked up from his spot on the floor, his hands wrapped around the small puzzle cube Doc had given him for being good. Something nice so he wouldn't be bored when Doc had to be at work. Doc was nice that way. He took care of wash.

The teal soldier was staring at him and his cube.

"Who are you?" Wash asked. He held the cube closer to his lap, and covered it with his hands. It was a gift from Doc. This man couldn't have it! "Why are you here?"

"Ah dude, oh this is bad. That sicko, just. Okay," The man said. There was a loud click and the man turned his head to the side. He started talking to the air. "Simmons, worse than we thought. His eyes are glazed, he's slurring his words, and he doesn't recognize me. Doc really pulled a number on him. I'm pretty sure he's drugged."

"You know Doc?" Wash asked. He stayed on the floor as the stranger ignored him, listening to something in his head. Wash tapped on a piece of the leg armor. "Hello?"

"Got it, Simmons," the man said. He knelt down next to Wash, and the head tilted to the side. Wash could almost see eyes behind the tinted visor. "Hey Wash, I'm Tucker—you know me dude, you're just loopy right now—and you and me are going for a trip, okay? We're gonna' get you out of this little hell hole."

"No, Doc'll be back, soon. I can't leave! Then he'll be lonely!" Wash scooted away when the man in armor grabbed at him. He was new. He didn't know. "Besides, if I do that, I'll be bad and he'll make me go back in the cell!"

"Oh, that son of a bitch. I'm gonna' kill that stupid medic," the man mumbled to himself. He shook his head and leaned over. "Come here, Wash!"

"No!" Wash's heart beat too fast. His world felt dizzy. He ran. "Go away!"

"Sorry, dude." The man said from behind him. "But this is for your own good."

Wash didn't understand the warning, until his world went black again.

* * *

Wash shivered. He was always cold, or too hot, and his head hurt, and everything ached. Nothing he ate would stay down and there was a constant ringing in his ear.

Doc was missing and couldn't give Wash his pill.

Instead, he was outside on the roof. Some guy in red said fresh air was good for him. It would help the worst of it. Wash didn't think it was working, and that man clearly had no idea what he was doing.

Did Doc miss him?

Wash flinched when the sound of footsteps neared. A man with metal welded to his face—Simmons—Wash's mind provided, sat down next to him with a bowl of porridge. He stirred the dish and set the bowl down. Wash reached for the spoon, his hand shaking.

Simmons rubbed his back, sighing deeply. "Make sure you remember to eat slow, or it'll all come back up like last time."

Wash grunted, and forced a spoonful in his mouth. It was hot and he smelled cinnamon. "Where's Doc, Simmons?"

"Not here," Simmons answered. He smiled a little crook on the side of his face. Satisifed with something Wash had done. He pat Wash on the back. "And you remembered my name."

"I'm not stupid," Wash mumbled. He licked a bit of grit off the spoon. "I miss Doc."

"I know." Simmons sighed heavily and leaned on Wash's shoulder. "You're going to be okay."

Wash didn't believe him.


	6. Drabble - Doc and O'Mally

_Originally Written in June 2013_

**Doc and O'Mally**

Frank couldn't breathe.

He was too livid. Too…angry at everything. One moment he was lightly frustrated with command's inability to answer, and now all he—

"I will eat your children you spineless, idiotic speck of a phone operator!" Doc screamed into his command. The fury was all encompassing. His hands were fists, he spit into the front of his helmet from the force of his words. Doc felt the murder in his veins. "Do you hear me!? I will slice them to pieces and devour them bit by bit while I make you watch!"

His heart stuttered in his chest. Was that him? Frank DuFresne? Medic? No, no it couldn't be!

"And that's only the appetizer!"

Frank DuFresne needed this anger out of his head right now. Before he did something he'd regret.

"I will end you!" Frank grabbed his head, and he screamed, "NO!"

Everything went black.

Doc opened his eyes, pushing up from the ground. He braced himself on a rock, crawling upward. There was a pounding in the back of his skull, and he couldn't remember a thing. Doc held his head, shaking it. "Ugh. What happened?"


	7. Drabble - Grimmons Hurt-Comfort

_Originally Written in June 2013_

**Drabble - Grimmons Hurt/Comfort**

**(Contains Adult Language)**

Their armor never malfunctioned.

It could take a direct bullet hit or two easy. It was why no one blinked an eye when Sarge occasionally landed a hit when he fired at Grif on a daily basis. The orange soldier was knocked over, and after heavy breathing and readjusting his heavy gut, made it to his feet to complain again for another day.

Until it didn't work, and the bullet went straight through the black fabric between the armor pieces.

"Grif! Grif, breathe, it's okay. It'll be okay," Simmons said, as he carefully undid each clip of armor. Grif was laid out on a table in the heart of their base.

Sarge cursed worse than usual in the background, but had already pulled out his surgery kit, and had a needle between his teeth ready for threading. Donut had lit a fire to sterilize it before Sarge could start sewing. Simmons was worried, but if Sarge could handle cyborg implantations, he could handle sticking a wound. Simmons hoped.

At least Donut was a decent nurse. He had already placed the torch under the needle as Sarge moved it down toward the ripped open and burnt skin.

"He shot me!" Grif shouted, pawing at Simmons hands. Simmons shoved him away and threw the armor piece to the side and out of Sarge's way. "He really shot me!"

"He shoots you every day, fatass," Simmons said, leaning forward as Sarge moved to the exposed area. Simmons snapped his fingers just over Grif's face, and kept his attention on him. They didn't have any anesthesia, and Simmons knew from experience this was going to hurt. Grif grunted, when Sarge pulled Grif's undershirt up from the blackened and burnt skin. "Hey, up here. Look at me."

"Nothing up there I want to see, Simmons."

"Well, there's nothing down there, either," Simmons leaned over, trying to avoid Sarge's hands moving furiously around Grif's stomach and Donut hovering with water and rags. Simmon's filled Grif's vision, and grabbed his chin to shove his face away from staring at Sarge. "You're lucky all that fat was in the way."

"Fuck you, Simmons," Grif grit his teeth together. "Fuck you."

"Later," Simmons said absently. "Right now, you want something to bite on? I might be able to get Donut to find something."

Grif tried to squirm, and Simmons dropped down to hold his arms down, and leant on his chest. "Hold still!"

"Your bed side manner sucks," Grif said through gritted teeth.

"This isn't bed side," Simmons snorted. "You'll get that later, I bet. And you'll whine like a baby the whole time."

"If I survive this!" Grif shouted. "Are you sure Sarge is trying to save me, and not kill me!?"

"If I wanted you dead dirtbag, I would have let you bleed out outside!" Sarge snarled, pouring alcohol around the wound to sterilize it. He wiped away the remains with a clean rag, and concentrated on the wound. "Now stop reminding me I'm saving your ass, or I'll kill you!"

"I'm filled with confide—AH!" Grif threw a still gloved hand up, and bit down on the bottom of his palm. He grimaced, and Simmons rubbed his shoulder. Sarge had started sewing, and as predicted—it hurt. Grif moaned, "Son of a bitch!"

"It'll be over soon," Simmons said. "Soon."

Soon was two hours later, and Grif unconscious in a bed. Sarge was out taking a shower in the waterfall, scrubbing the 'filth' off of himself from having to save Grif. Donut was with Caboose making get well cards.

So that left Simmons providing true "Bed side" comfort.

Simmons unwrapped the package of Oreos and handed one over to Grif. "You're lucky you're alive, idiot."

"I wouldn't have to be lucky if Sarge wouldn't shoot at me all the time," Grif grumbled, eating the cookie in a single bite as he spoke.

"Well, I have a feeling he'll lay off for a bit," Simmons said, biting into one of the cookies himself. It didn't taste as good as he'd hoped. Simmons blamed his blood pressure that had yet to calm down after the initial terror of seeing Grif drop, and realizing Sarge was their only medic with Doc away. Simmons reached for another cookie.

"Hey don't eat all of those! They're mine!"

"Fine! Take them, you greedy idiot," Simmons threw the bag at his head. The package spilled open, covering Grif in cookies and crumbs. "See if I care."

"Jerk," Grif said, leaning back and rubbing the bandages around his waist. "But, uh. Simmons?"

"What, jackass?"

"Thanks for uh, distracting me. Earlier, I mean." Grif said, scooting down in the bed. "It helped."

"Anytime," Simmons sighed. He reached over and grabbed a cookie off Grif's chest. "And you owe me."

"What!?"


	8. Crazy - Wash and Tucker

I blame certain people (there was more than one of you!) putting things in my Tumblr Ask Box about a certain ex-Freelancer and an Aqua Soldier, resulting in this pairing _refusing to leave my head._

**Crazy**

_Pairing:_ Tucker & Agent Washington

_Rating:_ T for Language.

_Summary: _Agent Washington drove Tucker crazy.

* * *

Tucker dumped his armor on the floor of the wrecked space shuttle. The Blue Soldier stripped off the top half of his protective meshing that guarded his skin from his armor and dropped it on the ground next to the aqua metal. He rubbed his aching pecs through his white undershirt, and dumped his tired ass on his bunk. Every muscle on his body burned, and every inch of it was covered in sweat that had soaked through his shirt and armor leggings. Tucker sucked in a breath before pealing off the lower half of the thick black fabric and dumping it in the pile.

Agent Washington was trying to kill him.

Drills, drills, and more drills. Followed by stretches, and regular work outs, and everything else under the sun. It never stopped. Even when Wash was working on the radio or playing babysitter for the Reds, he had some regiment for Tucker to run. Worse, Tucker couldn't even complain Wash wasn't doing it too—because he was! That lunatic ran the drills right along side him most of the time. It was as if Wash had no idea what to do with his time other than exercise, and he was going to drag Tucker down with him if it killed them both.

Hadn't he heard of the wonders of alone time and a rock!? Tucker rubbed the inside of his thigh, pressing his palm into an itch on the skin. It'd sure get Wash to loosen up for a minute.

Tucker threw his boxers and shirt onto the pile, and jumped into the standing shower attached to the room. If they had to be stranded, at least the ships' quarters were well equipped. After he thanked everything in the universe for cold water to calm his burning skin, Tucker leaned over the edge of the bed to get to his trunk. He pulled out a sweat-free pair of clean underwear and pulled them on before someone walked by his room and started yelling about propriety. A fresh teal camouflage printed uniform later, and Tucker was ready for dinner.

Tucker groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. He wanted to collapse in a puddle and never move again. Wash's drills were doing wonders for his muscles, but it was not worth it. If Tucker had to run one more lap around their little jungle hideaway, he wasn't going to be responsible for his actions.

If Church had been the one giving commands like this, Tucker would have told him to jump off a cliff. In fact, Tucker clearly remembered telling Church to do just that when he gave orders. Especially when they went against Tucker's well being. Not that Church ever wanted to do anything like run drills, but the point stood: Church was Tucker's best friend, but he was also an asshole. And you didn't have to listen to assholes.

But Church was long gone with Carolina. So Tucker had Agent Washington.

Who wasn't an asshole.

Tucker yawned into his hand as he walked down the corridor toward the ship's mess. Every day around 5pm, Wash would distribute the final day's rations to his team first, and then take the other half down to the "Red Base" so he could catch up with whatever those idiots were doing. Because he cared. Again: Wash wasn't an asshole.

And it drove Tucker crazy.

It'd be so much easier if Wash were an asshole to actually blow the guy off and screw all his drill practices instead of just verbally telling him that they sucked and doing it anyway. But no. Wash was running drills because he cared. He was a super-obsessive control freak with an organizational chart because he wanted what was best for the team. The ex-Freelancer showed real, genuine concern for Caboose mourning Church. He ran drills because he believed—honestly believed in full faith—that Tucker was a capable soldier who could handle it.

Wash was an emotional, paranoid wreck because he'd been stabbed in the back multiple times before, and had already lost everyone important to him, so he didn't want it to repeat again due to a ship crash.

A ship crash that was Tucker's fault.

Tucker may have also gone along with the drills due to harbored guilt that Wash's current freak out was technically his fault.

That drove him crazy, too. He shouldn't care this much. But Wash would get this tone in his voice, or that look in his eye that just shouted to the high heavens he was re-living something horrible in his head and Tucker had to swallow his pride. Guy was going to be the death of him.

"Hey Tucker," Wash said, pulling out a box of MRE rations from the food storage closet. Tucker's doom dumped the open box on the counter and leaved through the brown packages. Wash lifted a package and turned it sideways to read the label. "I think it's your turn to decide the menu for the day."

Tucker glanced at the chart on the wall, and sighed deeply at its existence. Wash even used a Blue pen to show his 'Full Support for the Team.' Tucker rolled his eyes. "Yup, my day."

"So, what'll it be?" Wash asked, shoving the box toward the teal soldier so he could read the labels himself.

"Spaghetti," Tucker answered without bothering to check the box. He pulled out a chair and collapsed in it. "It's the only one that's even remotely edible."

"That's not true," Wash said. He pulled out seven packs of Tucker's choice—two for Grif, another unspoken 'Wash is a nice guy' thing—and dumped them on the table. He closed the box up and pushed it back into the storage closet, locking the door tight—to prevent Grif from going back for more. The 'Wash is a prepared guy' thing. Wash looked over his shoulder and grinned. "I happen to like the Chicken Tetrazzini."

"I think your tastebuds are broken," Tucker said, pulling over a pack and spinning it on the table. He couldn't open the self-heating 'treat' until Caboose got his butt to the mess hall. Unspoken rule that Blue Team ate together. "These things are awful."

"Maybe I'm just used to them," Wash said. He leaned against the counter, still in armor from the neck down. Tucker spotted his helmet on the shelf next to the wall. "I was eating MRE packs before I even joined the UNSC. My dad had a ton of these things."

"That does not surprise me," Tucker said, shaking his head. He spun the pack around again on the table. "So you were always an army brat?"

"No," Wash said. He bit his lip and looked to the side. He crossed his arms and leaned on the table. "Dad just liked them. He was sort of weird that way."

"Apple didn't fall far from the tree did it?" Tucker laughed. Wash glared at him, and he held his hands up while shrugging his shoulders. Tucker leaned on his elbows. "So how did you get into the army?"

"How'd you?" Wash answered back. "You're capable, but as much as you complain, I have to wonder what you were expecting when you signed up."

"Fair question," Tucker said. He smirked and flicked the back of rations. "Women."

Wash was unable to hide the half-chuckle, and Tucker rolled his finger in the air. "Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Wash. I figured ladies love a man in uniform, and signed up hoping for some major action when I wore that armor around town."

"Until you figured out there was no shore leave and that there were no women in your squad," Wash said. "And by then you were stuck with a contract."

"Yeah, didn't quite think it through." Tucker pulled up in his seat, and leaned across the table. "So what about you, Mr. Freelancer? How'd you get into the UNSC?"

Wash shrugged, and sat down in a chair across from Tucker. "I joined. Not much more to it than that."

Tucker tossed the MRE package at Wash's head. He caught it before it made impact. Tucker pushed back from the table and leaned on the back of the chair legs. "Come on, I told you my embarrassing reason. Shouldn't Blue Team Leader have a little more trust in his loyal squad?"

Wash put the food package back on the table. He scratched the back of his cropped blonde hair and huffed. Wash dropped his shoulders, and the top of his cheeks blushed a light pink. "A girl, okay? My best friend didn't want to sign up alone and strong armed me into it."

"A girl, huh? What was her name?" Tucker asked. This was it! Common ground. Maybe Wash wasn't as uptight as he thought if he had interest in the ladies. "She pretty?"

"She's dead," Wash said. His face dropped, all humor of the moment lost in a breath. "So it doesn't really matter much."

The Ex-Freelancer's face turned hard, and Tucker instantly regretted the question. Of course Wash's girl was dead. Everybody this guy knew was dead. He was like a death magnet. Tucker rubbed between his eyes, and drummed his fingers on the desk. No wonder the guy was ultra paranoid about everybody in the vicinity dying at any given second.

"Sorry." Wash sighed, and rubbed the edge of his mouth. He traced the pattern in the metal table. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Nah, my fault for asking about her." Tucker rubbed the short, cropped curls on the back of his head. He tried for a smile and shrugged. "I know what losing a friend like that feels like."

Wash sucked in a heady breath and pushed away from the table like he couldn't breath. He snatched up his helmet, and grabbed four of the food packs. Tucker had barely lifted his head, when Wash clicked his helmet on and was talking as he headed for the door: "I'm taking these to the Reds. You can go ahead and eat, Tucker. And make sure Caboose eats his. I'll be back later. I think I'm going to talk with Sarge for a bit."

"Wash?" Tucker asked. Talk with Sarge? What was he talking about? Wash never missed eating with Tucker and Caboose. Tucker called again, but their new Blue Team Leader ignored him and high tailed it out of the room. Tucker jumped up from the chair. "Wash!"

The Freelancer was out of the base and down the hill before Tucker could catch him. Chasing him down was still an option, but Tucker needed time to think. Wash had looked downright spooked as he bolted from the ship. But what did it? Was he thinking about his girl, or did something else happen?

Tucker smacked his hand into the wall. It was going to drive him crazy trying to figure it out.

* * *

Wash didn't come back to the base.

Tucker wasn't worried of course. Wasn't worried one bit. The Aqua soldier snorted, stomping out of his room and heading down the hallway after checking on the Blue Team Leader's empty bunk and passing a snoring Caboose. Who was he kidding? Tucker was worried out of his mind. Which is why he was leaving the base in full armor first thing in the morning to drag Wash out of Red Base—which is where that loser better still be—and find out what the hell set Wash off that night.

Because Tucker never wanted to mention it again if it caused Wash to flake out more than usual.

He made it halfway down the hill, when he spotted the light blue and yellow armor down a side ridge. It was still, and leaning against a tree just on the edge of the jungle. Tucker turned and slid down the space until he was standing behind Wash.

Or what he thought was Wash.

Tucker kicked the empty armor over, and looked around for the body that belonged in it. The woods were empty, save for the normal sounds of wild animals and spooky tree noises. Tucker's hand hovered near his sword just in case it was needed. "Wash? You here? If you are, you're freaking me out. Where are you?"

"Over here."

The voice came from a few feet away from the armor, partially hidden by a low group of vines. Wash was sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, in jeans and a red shirt that looked a size too big. He waved over at Tucker, before falling on his back. Wash covered his eyes with his arms and breathed out. "What are you doing out here, Tucker?"

"Were you wearing that under your armor?" Tucker asked, ignoring Wash's stupid question. Which it was. Stupid. Did he really think that no one would come looking for him after disappearing all night? Tucker crossed his arms and stood over Wash. "Didn't know you were a Red at heart."

Wash snorted, and plucked the top of the red fabric up. He rubbed it between his fingers, and let the shirt fall back on his chest. "No, I borrowed them from Sarge. Sleeping in your armor is a pain."

Tucker watched the woods. "Surprised you'd sleep outside without it."

"I wasn't too concerned about it last night," Wash admitted, something tired in his voice.

Tucker kicked Wash lightly in the side, aware that he was still in full armor while Wash was oddly vulnerable on the jungle floor. "You didn't come back to base."

"Sorry to have worried you," Wash said. Tucker rubbed his fingers together. Wash kept his arms over his eyes, and though he meant what he was saying, there was something worrisome between the lines. "It won't happen again."

"Not good enough," Tucker said. He pulled off his helmet and tossed in the grass. It rolled until it tapped Wash's abandoned helmet. Tucker plopped down beside Wash, leaving an indent in the soft ground. Tucker punched the top of Wash's arm. "Start talking. You ran out of the base last night like something was on fire. What happened?"

Wash sucked in a breath. "It's not important, Tucker."

"Yes, it is." Tucker grabbed Wash's arm and pulled it out of his face. He held it up high enough that Wash had to sit up and look him in the eye. The ex-Freelancer glared, and Tucker met him right back. "What's the deal? You don't get to come in here talking about team mates and keeping us safe and killing us with drills, and then run away when you have a problem."

"I don't want to talk about it," Wash said. Pulled on his arm, trying to free it from the Aqua soldier's grip, but Tucker's armor held true. Wash snarled, "Let go, Tucker."

"I don't want to do drills, and you make me do them anyway, so no to both." Tucker shook his head and his hand squeezed reflexively. "At least tell me what I did so I don't do it again."

"You didn't do anything!" Wash said, smacking Tucker's arm. He twisted his wrist to try and free himself, but Tucker refused to let him go. Wash shoved Tucker's chest. "I did! Which is the point! Now let go!"

Tucker asked, "What'd you do?"

"I killed Church!"

The strangled cry was enough for Tucker to let go of Wash's arm. The blonde held his arm to his chest and rubbed at the slightly red flesh. He breathed heavily, and wiped at his nose with the back of his palm. Tucker ducked his head down and listened to the two of them breathing.

Tucker covered his mouth. "Look, I'm upset Church and Carolina ditched, too. But you didn't exactly kill him."

"Epsilon isn't Church," Wash said. He threw his arms out, and his voice hitched as words spilled out with no control. "Not the one you knew. He was just a fragment of the guy they were both based on, the original Leonard Church. Your best friend was the Alpha, and I killed him along with the rest of the A.I fragments. I killed your best friend. I'm the one who made you feel like I did when Connie died."

Wash covered his face in his arms again and sucked in a breath. Tucker leant back on his arm and looked up at the warming morning sun.

"Church is dead," Tucker said the words slowly, as if he was testing them.

"I'm sorry," Wash said again. "I'm really, really sorry."

"No," Tucker said. He squeezed his hands, going back and forth between fists and stretching his fingers out. Tucker blew out a breath, growled and rubbed his face. "I mean, I never really thought about it before."

Wash asked through his arms, "What?"

"I wasn't there for the whole Alpha thing," Tucker said. "By the time I even met up with Caboose and the others after we all got split up from Blood Gulch, Epsilon was already in that floating ball and calling himself Church. It never really sunk in that Church was dead, because Epsilon was so much like him it was scary. It was like Church had never left. So it never even occurred to me that Church, the one I knew, was dead."

"Then who were you talking about?" Wash pulled his arm down and let them rest around his waist. "When you said you knew what it was like for friends to die?"

"Captain Flowers," Tucker said. He coughed into his hand and scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, he could get creepy when he was talking about making us call him 'Daddy' and shit, but he was really nice. And a good commander. And uh, he promised me a sniper rifle, but it didn't happen because he died."

"Oh," Wash said. The Blue Leader, rubbed his thumb against his palm. "I keep forgetting your team had a leader before Church."

"Yeah," Tucker said. He pulled his leg up, and poked Wash in the side. "So was that it? I mentioned my buddy dying, you assumed I was talking about church, and you got super guilty and made a run for it?"

"If you want to put it that simply, than yes." Wash scrubbed at his face and dropped his legs out flat. He took in a deep breath, and looked up at the sky. He avoided Tucker's face. "Look, I've—I've killed a lot of people in my life. It was part of the job. But this is the first time I've dealt with, well. The consequences.

"I've never had to deal with the people left behind from killing other soldiers before. Hell, I'm still shocked Sarge and the others forgave me for shooting Donut, or Caboose forgave me for Church—which I'm pretty sure only happened because he had Epsilon. I had no idea how you felt about the whole thing," Wash said. "I guess I just got scared that maybe you finally put two and two together that I murdered your friend."

"Yeah, well. I hadn't really thought about it." Tucker fell on his back and joined Wash. He probably should have felt angrier about the whole thing than he did, but it was in the past. Church was gone, and Wash was here. Tucker shifted, the armor heavy. "And at this point, there's no real reason to get mad about it. You're sorry about it, and from what I understand, Church sacrificed himself for a greater cause. So don't worry, no grudges here. I'm too cool for that."

"That's," Wash stopped. "Thank you."

"Don't get mushy, Wash," Tucker said.

* * *

In a rare moment of equality, Tucker and Wash were both out of armor and taking in some downtime the next evening. Caboose was out back somewhere working on his special project, but neither were too worried. They were too busy enjoying the peace and quiet.

"I can't believe you still made me run all those drills after our heart to heart yesterday," Tucker groaned, rolling over into the couch. The ship break room was still mostly in tact, though the TV was broken. There was really no point to use this room instead of their own, but somehow it shook things up just by being in a different space. Wash was reading some manuel, and Tucker was lazing about. That was all he could manage. "My nipples are killing me."

"Drills are good for you," Wash said. He flipped a page in his book. Tucker tossed his way back to look over the man's shoulder. A weapons catalog. Fun. Wash circled something with too many gun barrels on the bottom left. "They keep you in shape. Plus, if we missed a day, tomorrow would have been even worse."

"You could give up the drills entirely," Tucker offered.

Wash smiled out of the corner of his mouth and circled another gun in red. "Nope."

Tucker groaned, and buried his head into the couch cushion. Wash was too much. What had happened to all that compliant guilt? This sucked. Tucker huffed, "You have no idea how badly I wish you were an asshole."

"You don't think I'm an asshole?" Wash asked, lowering the book an inch. "I could have sworn that you did."

"Church was an asshole," Tucker said. He lifted his head from the cushion and smashed his cheek into the side of the fabric. He tugged at a bit of Wash's cropped hair. "You're crazy. A caring, completely out of his mind lunatic obsessed with drills, but still not an asshole."

"I'm not crazy," Wash grumbled, pulling his book back up. He wiped away Tucker's hand from his hair. "I'm not."

"Well you sure drive me crazy," Tucker huffed, and cradled his head in his arms. "So it counts."

Wash had the nerve to chuckle. The asshole.


	9. Even His Escape Is Torment - Wash

Someone posted a horrible prompt on Tumblr expressing that all of Season 11 of RvB was just in Wash's head, and that in reality he was drugged in prison.

So I wrote it.

It made folks cry on Tumblr, so I figure that's worth a cross-post. Enjoy!

* * *

**Even His Escape Is Torment**

_Characters:_ All of them. But mostly Agent Washington & Private First Class Tucker.

_Warning:_ Spoilers for Season 11

_Summary:_ The jungle and the valley are all in Wash's head.

* * *

Agent Washington was the threat.

That's what the UNSC prison staff had decided. He was the Freelancer. The dangerous one with all the training. So out of all the Blood Gulch crew that had been contained and shackled, he was the only one pumped so full of tranquilizers and other drugs that he couldn't see straight. However, he managed to stay awake through it, somehow. His eyes open and glazed. He was a functioning vegetable, mumbling constantly to himself.

Sarge had commented that it would have been kinder to shoot the poor man in the head and let it be. Every couple of days after listening to the drama that was unfolding in Wash's head, Tucker agreed.

Not that Wash had been in much better a state after the initial arrest before the drug cocktail. Tucker hadn't realized Wash had already been to a UNSC prison when they were running around with Carolina. Wash had earned the first tranquilizer by taking down four guards in a panicked frenzy to get away while simultaneously trying to free the Blood Gulch crew. He broke down screaming when his body slowed from the drug and he dropped his rifle. Then they shot him again in the neck with a second needle to be safe.

When Washington fell, everyone else wisely put their weapons on the ground, and put their hands up.

Their only reprieve, was that the Reds and Blues shared a cell block in the UNSC Prison Facility. Tucker and Wash shared a small cell about eight by six feet. Across the hallway, Sarge and Caboose resided. Grif and Simmons were to Tucker and Wash's right. They were their own little corner at the end of the row, split off from the rest of general population by four or five empty cells. Stripped of their armor, the group was still considered dangerous enough to be chained to the wall at all times with a loose chain. They never left their cells. There was no 'outside time,' and meals were brought to them with Wash's daily dose of pills.

"Suspicious behavior," Wash mumbled, his head flopped to the side as his body tried to fight the debilitating drugs. "Stupid Freckles."

Freckles was the new guy, Tucker had figured out. The group of them listened to Wash's ramblings day in and day out, and had gathered he was living a different reality out in his head. Some alternate scenario to escape his drugged up state of mind: Tucker was his second, and Caboose missed Church. The Reds were part of the team now, but still lived on the other side of the jungle. Wash's fake Simmons had joined Blue Team at some point, which scandalized Sarge and Simmons alike in the real world.

Even Doc and Donut had shown up in the poor ex-Freelancer's head. It was almost depressing how Wash had gathered all of his new friends and companions in his head to keep him company, when their real counterparts were sitting right next to him in reality.

But he couldn't see them through the haze.

"Mr. Freckles sounds nice," Caboose said, swinging his feet back and forth on his bed. Sarge was underneath, spread out on the bottom bunk. "I miss Church, but I'm glad Wash gave me a new friend."

"Don't talk about Church," Tucker hissed. He tossed a wad of paper at his teammate through the bars. "No one wants to hear about that bastard."

Caboose recoiled, pulling his feet up on the mattress. "Sorry."

The words "Carolina," "Church," and "Epsilon" were taboo. No one wanted to bring up those two because frankly, everyone had the same thought concerning them: Where the ever living hell were they!? Tucker tightened his hand into a fist and breathed heavily as Wash continued to mumble, barely sitting up right on his bed. Carolina and Church had abandoned them. It'd been near a month now—so where was the rescue? Carolina could easily break the group out.

She owed it to Wash.

But they hadn't showed. No one was coming to save the Reds and Blues from this UNSC prison.

"No," Wash said, his chest moving faster with an increased heart rate. He gripped the sheets, and his breath hiccuped. Tucker jerked his head over to see the man start to thrash as if he were having a nightmare. That was new. Wash grunted. "No, just a pilot. Don't do…don't do it."

Tears formed around the corner of Wash's eyes and his fingers twitched into the fabric. Tucker threw his head at the clock. It was almost time for his next dosage: The drug was wearing off, but he was still trapped in his head.

"NO!" Wash screamed, lurching forward. He toppled off the bunk, and Tucker scrambled to his side. Sarge was off his bed and at the cell door, while Caboose huddled in the corner of his bed, biting his thumb. Grif watched, paying attention but not moving. Simmons gripped the bars, wishing he could get over to help. Wash thrashed, tears streaming down his face. "No, no, no! He was there to rescue us! Why'd you shoot him!? WHY!?"

"Wash!" Tucker yelled, grabbing both of the man's shoulders. He shook him hard, watching his head flop. "No one's been shot. Look at me! Look at me right now!"

Wash's body froze, and his eyes narrowed in on Tucker's. He gulped breaths, his body still uncooperative from the draining drug. But Tucker saw it—the recognition. It was there. The slightest glimmer, and Tucker dared to hope.

"Tucker?" Wash asked.

"Yes, it's Tucker," the aqua soldier answered. He grabbed Wash's face with his hands and held it steady. "I'm right here. Focus."

"Caboose had you…fixing the radio…tower?" Wash asked, his breath picking up. The confusion in his voice was agonizing to hear.

"No, no. No radio tower. There's just me, Wash. Tucker." The soldier kept his voice steady, as everyone watched. "You're here with me."

Wash's eyes held Tucker's for a few moments, before they darted to the right. He saw Caboose leaning over the edge of his bunk, eyes wide and eyes teary. Wash whispered, "Caboose?"

"Agent Washington!" Caboose said, leaping toward the edge of the bed. He leaned over the side and waved his hand back and forth. "Can you see me?"

Wash nodded, shaking violently under Tucker's hands. He pulled back and away, slamming his back into the bottom bunk. His head jerked around the room, eyes seeing his surrounding for the first time since he'd been tossed on the bunk like a rag doll. "Where…where are we?"

"If I say UNSC jail, are you going to freak out?" Tucker asked with his hands raised. "Because that would be bad."

"Jail? No, no. We were in the jungle. The ship crashed! It crashed and everyone died and you made a bad joke about it," Wash said, his voice picking up. He pulled his legs in and grabbed at his hair. "We were trying to fix the tower to get help."

"That was just a dream, Wash," Tucker said slowly. "You were asleep for a long time, but you're awake now. So stay with me, okay? Caboose and Sarge and everyone were waiting for for you to wake up."

"They were?" Wash asked. The hopeful tone in his voice stabbed Tucker in the gut. He was going to murder Carolina himself is she ever showed her face again for leaving them all to this. "Really?"

"Really," Tucker said. "Right guys?"

"Good to have you back, Soldier," Sarge said. His voice was chipper, but his eyes were heavy. He leaned on the bars, and looked at Wash like he was a lost little child. A grandfatherly nature took over the hardened soldier's exterior. He said softly, "Blue Team's not the same without you."

"Now that you're awake, maybe Caboose and Tucker'll stop acting like babies," Grif said, grumbling softly.

"GRIF!" Simmons shouted, smacking his cell mate in the arm. "Don't listen to him, Wash. He's an immature child who can't admit he missed you. It's really good to see you awake, sir."

"All of you calm down!" A guard shouted, making his way down the row. He smacked his nightstick along the bars as he walked, dragging a tray behind him. Dinner. "Sleeping beauty's got his pills to take, so stop riling him up."

"No," Tucker said. He leapt toward the bars and grabbed them. "Please! This is the first time he's been conscious since you dragged him in here. He'l behave! He doesn't need those things. Don't do this to him again. It's cruel."

"Back away from the bars," The UNSC Soldier said. He slammed his nightstick into them, rattling the cell bars, and making Wash jump. "Or not only is he taking those pills, but I'll drag him down to solitary and leave him there. Is that what you want?"

Tucker gripped the bars, grinding his teeth together so hard he swore he heard one crack. Wash on drugs in solitary was a death sentence. Tucker backed up from the bars, his stomach caught in his throat. "No, sir."

The dazed Wash was handed a cup with two little white pills, and forced to swallow. They chased it down with a lukewarm cup of water, and the grimy guard shoved his fingers in Wash's mouth to check and make sure the pill had gone down. Satisfied, they tossed the two lunch trays on the ground and left.

Tucker reached down and picked up a spoon. He'd have to help Wash. Like always. Tucker dug up a mouthful of applesauce on the utensil and collapsed next to Wash. Routine had murdered their moment of joy. "Hey, buddy. Time to eat."

Everyone ate in silence as the light in Wash's eyes faded into nothing over the course of dinner.

Empty trays were shoved under the bars and into the hallway, as Wash began mumbling again about his little jungle hideaway. Only now, there was something darker there. A new haunting that tormented him, even in his escape.

The Blood Gulch crew vowed that day that someone would be sorry for this. If it killed them all, someone would be sorry.


End file.
